


Blood, Mine, Tips

by ceywoozle, stilesstilerstyle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blood, M/M, Possessive Sherlock, Prostitute John, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilesstilerstyle/pseuds/stilesstilerstyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the one word bottomjohn prompt series.</p><p>this ended up being done as an RP style fic that got wildly out of hand and we accidentally ended up filling three separate prompts with it.</p><p>****************</p><p>john works as a prostitute at an exclusive brothel. sherlock just needs to clear his head. they both get a bit more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood, Mine, Tips

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt ended up being filled as RP fic between two prompt writers. It fills three separate words: Blood, Mine, and Tips. It is written as alternating points of view between Sherlock and John.
> 
> Sherlock's POV is written by ceywoozle.  
> John's POV is written by stilesstilerstyle.

It’s cold and raining and Sherlock can’t think. He’s heavy with a restless sort of fever that drags at him and refuses to let him concentrate. He hasn’t eaten, hasn’t slept. Everything building up on him and instead of making everything clear, his mind just gets more and more fogged with every passing hour.

He needs… _something_. He snarls at the air and a passerby gives him a nervous look before moving quickly away.

He knows what he needs, of course. He’s felt this familiar ache before but it irks him how traitorously weak his body can be, and he pretends as though the direction he’s taking isn’t intentional. That the streets getting closer and darker and grittier around him is nothing but coincidence, the incidental happenings of his feet outside of his control.

But when he stops finally, in front of the blank, boarded up building, what little glass that’s left painted black from the inside, he knows he has to stop pretending. With a growl of resignation, he pushes his way in through the door.

~~~~~~~~~~

John has been working all day, he is sore and tired. He can’t believe that people would come in at all times of the day, some come around nine in the morning for god’s sake.

He is done with his most recent customer and is now pulling on his tight red shorts, showing every outline of his limp cock, and his luscious arse.

It’s his best asset, and he knows just how to roll his hips to get the customers to choose him. He needs the money, of course, but he also likes the job. He likes being desired and wanted.

There are those rare days on which he hates it, but those have to be dealt with as well. Today is one of those days.

He sighs and ignores a remark coming from the man who is still sitting on his bed, heaving breaths in and out. John picks up the man’s clothes, throws them into his arms, and motions for him to leave. He walks out of his room behind the man, getting ready for his next customer. There always is one.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s dim inside, giving the place a squalid look despite the surprising cleanliness. The outside door opens into a wide foyer, tiled in black and white, and beyond it, a single long corridor with a series of doors placed every ten feet.

Just inside the entrance, and a young woman stands with a clipboard and a respectable grey suit, her face plain and unexciting, utterly ordinary.  _Dull._

“Good evening,” she says in a soft voice. “Would you like to look at our menu?”

“No. I know what I want,” he says, and tells her simply and she nods in understanding.

“Of course, sir. I believe one of the experienced boys are just finishing up now. If you’d like to pay first, you can then wait over there and he’ll be with you as soon as he can.”

Sherlock pays, pulling out the credit card he’d stolen from Mycroft last time his brother had tried to check up on him. The payment goes through without a hitch and Sherlock smiles to think of what Mycroft will say when that bill arrives. Sherlock follows the woman’s pointing finger to the wall where tidy looking chairs stand with a round table set between them and magazines neatly stacked on top.

He’s just sat down when he hears a door open from along the corridor, and a moment later a man stumbles into the foyer from the back, his hair mussed and his clothes showing signs of recent adjustment. He sneers at the spectacle, at the lowness of a man like that who can’t even be bothered to hide what he’s just done. Sherlock runs a practised eye along the stranger and comes up with _married, three children all under six, retail salesman just passed over for a promotion, burgeoning alcoholic._

Then the man is gone, passed through the doorway and back out into the street and the woman is approaching Sherlock and gesturing for him to follow.

~~~~~~~~~~

John makes sure that the man leaves and that he’s taken all his belongings with him. He closes the door, and quickly makes the bed, rushing to make it look as clean as possible.

Thank goodness the customer from before didn’t have the money to pay for unprotected sex, it had been his first time too, so he wouldn’t have gotten to have it either way. Registered users only get that level of luxury, they have to be tested beforehand, to make sure they are clean.

John is glad that he didn’t have to do much cleaning up on himself, and he hadn’t come, so there was almost no evidence of the other customer having been there at all. Which is good, because John would rather forget him.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath and crossing his legs.

The arched back is a trained reaction whenever he hears the knock on the door. The downturned face, and the shy smile is like his second nature. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor, until he is allowed to look up when the door closes with a quiet click.

~~~~~~~~~~

The man on the bed isn’t young. Not precisely. Late thirties and…jaded. Something worn and tense about him. Experienced, certainly, but lacking the slightly bored air that experience brings. He’s waiting for something, for someone to turn, for a stray fist or a kick to lash out. A harsh word to give him an excuse. Sherlock stares at him, at harsh lines dug into his face, at a well-formed body leanly muscled and eminently competent. He’s short, but it’s an oddly tenuous idea, as if it’s not really part of him, a fact that exists outside his personality, or in spite of it.

Sherlock can’t see his eyes, trained downwards and offering the lie of a docile temper and a humility which the man clearly has no concept of, but he wants to. Oh, he wants to.

“Look at me,” he says, and his voice is harsh, surprising even himself. He wants to know what colour they are. He wants to know what they’ll look like when he has the man pressed on his belly with his cock up his arse.

~~~~~~~~~~

John’s head snaps up at the command, and his smile is stuck on his face like it was glued on. He’s breathing calmly, running his eyes up and down the man who is standing before him. He’s tall, dark wet curls bouncing and framing his sharp and pale face, his hands seem relaxed, but John can read the tension in his body, he’s seen it so often, has felt it quiver underneath the surface of his own skin and of so many other men who had entered this room. But never had anyone seemed so ready, so tense, a spring coiled so tightly, if you touched it, it would push you back so hard you would lose your breath.

John’s smile fades as he sees the darkness in those piercing eyes.

John strengthens his jaw and speaks the words he’s spoken every day for the past ten years: “Welcome. How may I serve you today? Which dish have you chosen to sink your teeth into?” Normally he would smile, but now he speaks the words, pushing them out through grit teeth.

He takes a deep breath, licking his lips.

This man is dangerous. He can feel it, thrumming in the air like a taut string. His stomach flips pleasantly.

This feeling hasn’t been around so intensely ever since he’d come back from Afghanistan.

~~~~~~~~~~

Blue. Lake blue. Something deep and vaguely threatening. Sherlock can feel his lips curling up at the corners and he couldn’t stop them if he tried. He immediately changes his plan. There’s no way he’s going to let that fierce clear gaze get lost in some unresponsive mattress.

“You’re not new. How come I’ve never seen you before?”

The man doesn’t say anything, just leans his head to the side, eyes raking up and down Sherlock’s body. Sherlock can feel it in ever inch of hidden flesh and he suddenly wishes he weren’t wearing so much clothing.

He begins to disrobe as those blue eyes watch him, a jaw out-thrust, something stubborn in its set and Sherlock can practically hear him considering a fight, considering making Sherlock something other than his usual faceless client. Something memorable. Something exciting. Sherlock can feel his own  smile widen in response, his teeth clenched and visible and he knows how threatening he is right now. He has all the power in this room, or at least he should. But it doesn’t take a genius to sense that this man is not only challenging it, but blatantly refusing to acknowledge it.

Sherlock is down to his pants, the last piece of clothing, and he knows his penis is hard, pushing the fabric away from his stomach, the head of it red and swollen. He’s not small, and he feels a bizarre sense of smug pride when he sees the man’s eyes widen slightly at the sight.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I tend to be busy.” John watches every single one of the man’s movements as he takes off his clothes.

He normally doesn’t have to deal with men who are actually dangerous and threatening to John, even though they would like to seem like they are. He’s been spanked before, called a  _bad boy_. It had been humiliating. No man had ever dared to be actually demanding and commanding and ask for more than they had paid for, which John secretly loathed and despised. But John knows that this man isn’t here for some quick easy fuck, he wants more, he wants to release the tightly caged need, which John can see clearly.

When the man is down to his pants, standing proud and smug looking down at John, he can’t help but to stare at the man’s erection, bulging in those pants and definitely of larger size than average.

He feels his own cock twitch at the sight.

Straightening his back he stands, still a lot shorter than the man, but he knows that his jut out jaw won’t make him look like a weak, wounded animal.

He keeps his stare cold as he walks up to the man, careful not to step on the strewn out clothes. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“What do you want?”

~~~~~~~~~~

What does he want?

Sherlock looks down at the man and is aware of how it does not feel like he is looking down at all.

“Whatever I can take.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“You can give it your best try.”

John is standing much closer than he himself is normally comfortable with in such a situation. He slowly moves his hand forward and gasps theatrically as he feels the strangers erection through the fabric. Tilting his head to the side he speaks in his most sultry voice.

“Do you want me to tell you yours is the biggest one I’ve ever seen? Do you want me to tell you you’re the best I’ve ever had?”

He applies firm pressure against the man’s cock, teasingly stroking up and down. “If you want me to say those things all you have to do is ask.”

He left the rest of the sentence implied.  _If you want to hear me say it without asking, you’re gonna have to make me._

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock grins and he can feel the threat in the expression, the animal hunger that comes out. The man’s hand on is laid on his cock and there is clear mockery in his tone, in his face, in his stance. Sherlock can feel the growl building, the feral need to bring this man to his knees and make him beg.

“My name’s Sherlock,” he says.

And without waiting for a response, with a quickness learnt from years of surviving, he snatches the man’s wrist and with a deft twist brings his arm up and around, forcing him around and backwards, dragging him against him so that the hard line of his cock is pressed into the cleft of his arse.

He thrusts once with his hips, saying without words what he wants to say:  _You’ll need it for later._

“So,” he says, low in the man’s ear. “Do you have a name, or do I just call you ‘whore’?”

~~~~~~~~~~

John gasps for real this time, feeling pain shoot up through his arm and spreading into the rest of his body. He can feel the man’s body, Sherlock’s body, flush against his own, and he sucks in a harsh breath at the feeling of the man’s cock against his clothed arse. His eyes are wide, and his cock is sporting an erection unlike any he’d ever had.

This man knows how to fight, he’s had his fair share apparently. John is pleased.

He takes a deep breath and says, keeping his voice even and cold: “My name’s John, but I think I prefer ‘whore’. I don’t want to hear you say my name.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Unexpected fire blazes through Sherlock, making him sharply inhale, and he can feel the man’s—John’s—entire frame vibrate with a low laugh and Sherlock bites back an involuntary groan.

John. An ordinary name. In no way suitable for this extraordinary creature.

And yet…it  _does_  suit him.

He’s incredibly grateful John can’t see his face right then because he’s know he’s flushed and looks as breathless as he feels. Something tells him that John knows it anyway though and with a snarl he leans abruptly forward, snapping his teeth down on that neck and he feels the pop of skin breaking under them, the copper taste of blood on his tongue.

~~~~~~~~~~

Not ready for such fierceness, he blames himself for not seeing it coming. He shouts out at the pain radiating through his neck, and yet, he can’t keep himself from bursting out laughing. It’s a low laugh, and not really full-bodied. But he knows that the man is unsure, having never met anyone just like himself, and trying to show him that he’s willing to fight.

Heat rises through him, and the hot trickle of blood down his back makes him shudder pleasantly.

Sherlock must be used to people cowering before him, and letting him do whatever he wants, and John is sure that he wants to try and break him too.

He decides right then to give him his best and hardest fight.

Bleeding, in pain, and smiling. Oh god how he’d missed it.

~~~~~~~~~~

John laughs.

_Laughs._

And Sherlock knows that there’s no way he’s winning this. Not because he plans to lose, but because this man will not let himself be beaten.

He draws a tongue across John’s neck where the skin is red and hot and the blood is sliding down. He laps it up, his tongue gathering it up and he swallows, wanting to taste it, wanting to ingest it and make it part of him. Something stolen and taken by force.

Trapped in his grip, Sherlock feels John shudder and he gives a thrust, pushing his cock hard between the crease of his arse for the second time. A promise. A threat.

“Whore,” he says, and his voice is a low and hoarse and dangerous. “Whore. Get on your back where you belong.” And he releases John’s arm.

~~~~~~~~~~

John aches, feeling Sherlock close to him had been amazing, and he just keeps himself from whining when he is pushed away. He calls him whore.

John turns to look at Sherlock, glaring at him, a slight grin on his face. The man’s lips are red with John’s blood, and he automatically licks his own.

He slowly sits down on the bed, showing his teeth in a snarl.

As he lies down he says: “Thank you for respecting my wish. What a gentleman.”

He chooses not to do anything besides what Sherlock ordered him to do. Splaying his hands on his naked stomach, he can feel his own skin flutter beneath his touch.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock feels the low laugh rumble out of him. The stubbornness of the man. It’s something that transcends beauty, and what had before been ordinary is no longer so. It’s such an abrupt shift that he’s left momentarily speechless, staring at the man, at the stubborn set of his face, the ready tension in his shoulders, and he fixes it. Fixes it in his head. In that moment clears a corner in his mind and names it for him.  _John._

“Such an… _obedient_  whore,” Sherlock drawls, and steps towards him, hyperaware of his own body, the exaggerated sway of his hips. He watches John’s eyes widen as he nears and when he’s standing directly over John, looking down at him, lying flat on the bed with his hands on his stomach and his legs straight out before him and pointedly closed, only then does Sherlock take off his final layer. He eases the pants down over his hips, down his thighs. Lets them pool around his ankles and with a casual movement, hooks them with his toes and catches them in his hand.

John stares at him, trying to scowl, but the heat in his face is unmistakeable. The want as clear as Sherlock’s own. Sherlock dangles the pants from a finger, waving them before John, and smiles. “Should you happen to get too noisy.”

~~~~~~~~~~

John’s eyes flick from the pants to Sherlock’s jutting erection to his hungry eyes. He keeps himself from shuddering and says: “I doubt you’ll be able to make me scream.”

He knows that Sherlock knows he’s antagonizing him, egging him on, but it feels so good, to see the smugness slip off his face for barely even a second.

To further his point of open refusal of laying everything bare, he crosses his right leg over the left, lolling his head from one side to the other, smiling lightly. He can feel his cock twitching in its enclosed space, feeling hot and throbbing, leaking and wanting, needing to be touched.

He denies himself as much as he does this customer.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s enough. It’s more than enough, that tacit refusal to cooperate. With a lunge Sherlock is on him, straddling him, legs on either side of John’s hips, his torso leaning forward and his eyes are inches from John’s, his lips barely that. The sheet is red at his shoulder where the blood is still seeping and Sherlock stares into those wide eyes, eyes that are startled for the first time, that expression utterly open, and with a snarl dips his head down and clamps his teeth down on John’s throat.

~~~~~~~~~~

The momentum of Sherlock’s lithe body is astounding and John has no time whatsoever to react. He breathes a cloud of shock and surprise, feeling the weight of this stranger on top of him, grinding him into the mattress with barely any movement. He’s thoroughly pinned and he can almost taste his own blood on Sherlock’s lips, they’re so close.

When Sherlock’s head dips below, and John feels those teeth, that have already broken his skin once, on his throat he shouts, wanting to bring his hands up to push the man away.

He isn’t sure how he hadn’t felt him pin his wrists above his head. Breathing deeply it takes a moment for him to realize that there is pressure of the man’s sharp teeth, but it’s a threat, more than anything, and he knows he’s chosen the right man to play this dangerous game with.

~~~~~~~~~~

John’s slow, clearly out of practice, and Sherlock imagines the swiftness of this compact frame as it could have been. As it might be, given a bit of exercise, a reason to remember.

But at the moment Sherlock’s only grateful that John is slower than him, that he is the faster one, the stronger one, because he can feel his own need starting to mount. His brain is shutting down, forcing out the rational, and all that is left is the primal drive to mount, to mate, to claim.

Underneath his teeth, his hands, his body, John is panting, his hips bucking into Sherlock’s and Sherlock is certain that John doesn’t even realise it’s happening.

He tightens his teeth against John’s throat and feels the skin stretch under his lips, feels the whine that vibrates through the subdued body beneath him.

He presses his own hips down, pushing his cock in the line between John’s legs and he feels them part. He doesn’t think it’s voluntary, but John is fading just like him. Losing himself to the animal that wants nothing more than to be taken and claimed.

~~~~~~~~~~

John wants to speak. He even tries. But all he manages to come up with is a low whine as the teeth on his throat dig deeper. He used to be faster he thinks. He knows.

And deep down he also knows that he actually still is, but he ignores that knowledge, boring inside of him.

He can barely form a thought, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing with his own body, it seems to have decided to make its own decisions.

 _You’re breaking_  he tells himself. He doesn’t want to break. _But you do._

He’s in deep, and he feels his eyes roll back into his head as he feels delicious friction against his still covered cock.

Pieces of his sanity seem to slip away, into the void.

This is something new, something raw and unexperienced for John. He tells himself to keep breathing.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock can feel the moment John admits defeat. The moment he stops even trying, making the conscious decision to give in. Sherlock can feel the roar of something like triumph, but mostly it’s just possessiveness. Mostly just a sharper variety of need than he’s used to and it’s controlling him. Controlling them both. He dimly recognises his own capitulation and realises that he doesn’t care. That it’s unimportant now with the broken body beneath him, opening to him, giving in. He snarls against the reddened skin and knows that John can feel it as something physical inside him because he gives a loud moan and his hips jump up, desperately seeking more, seeking something, and Sherlock knows he’s going to give it to him.

He lets go of the John’s wrists, his hands slipping downwards and gathering the material of John’s pants in two fists. With a grunt, he tears it, hears the ripping sound through the haze in his head and it inflames him.

He snaps down with a snarl on the skin beneath his teeth and blood blooms.

~~~~~~~~~~

John arches, hot, searing hot he feels it slide and trickle, he can feel the shreds of his pants slip over his skin and down onto the bedsheets, he moans, eyes wide with fear and the agony of arousal.

He hates himself for giving in, for ruining what could have been such a beautiful fight, but he loves the feeling of this man above him, fierce and feral, different from anyone he’s ever met, the hot slide of their cocks against each other.

He bites back a whimper, and turns it into a growl. With his now free hands, he throws them around Sherlock, digging his nails into the skin of his back, dragging them down. He doesn’t want to lose what they had started out with, what had made this whole thing so good to begin with.

He’s not sure if he’s bleeding out, but he doesn’t really care.

He moves his one hand up into the dark curls, tangling into them and pulling Sherlock up, to look into those dark hungry pools of lust.

“Call me whore again.” And then he smashes their lips together, he can taste himself, the salty coppery flavour of his own blood, spread on his tongue, as he battles with the other.

He can feel the need of Sherlock pour into himself, and he absorbs it and throws it right back.

~~~~~~~~~~

Kissing. Oh God, kissing.

There is a liquid-hot pain down his back where John’s nails have scored his skin. The taste of blood on his tongue and he is tasting John, tasting all of John, swallowing him whole.

He knows this is different. This is new. This is something else. The prostitutes of this house don’t usually kiss their clients and Sherlock knows that he should stop this because he’s already too involved, this has already become something far more personal than he intended or wants. But John’s legs are around him, wrapped around him and those slim hips are bucking into him, begging without a single word and Sherlock’s never been harder in his life.

There is nothing left of him but the need to drive into this man and he frees a hand from where his fingers are dragging at John’s hair, and slides it between them, fighting for room, and he hopes John is prepared already because he’s not stopping for anything. It’s clumsy and it’s hot and it’s sweaty. It takes far more concentration than he has and he resorts finally to thrusting blindly up between those wide open legs, pushing up over and over while John grunts obscenely into his mouth, and finally, oh god  _finally_  there is the slight give of the place he seeks, that empty hungry hole, and he feels the head of his cock slip in, feels the slickness around the rim, and he’s never been so grateful for anything in his life.

With an animal sound, he pushes in once, hard and fast and without a shred of mercy for the fragility of the flesh beneath him.

~~~~~~~~~~

John’s losing himself. He’s forgetting that this is a job, a client, a man he’s supposed to see for one time, a few hours, and then never again.

But he can’t stop, he’s in too deep, and he needs, he wants, if he doesn’t  _g_ _et_ then he’s sure he’s going to drown in his own blood. So he drags Sherlock closer, feeling their bodies pulse as one, at the same moment, in the same place, united.

He’s never begged earnestly in his entire life, but he is screaming with his whole being now. Exchanging breath and air as they’re mouths are like puzzle pieces, hovering against each other, now and again fitting into place, and breaking apart again.

And there he is, finally. The hot slide of Sherlock’s cock against his cheeks feels like a trail of fire, and he is willing to never feel anything again, if only,  _if only_ he would get what he needs.

He arches when he takes all of Sherlock in one push, he keens and whines and screams.

It’s wild and beautiful. He tries to keep his eyes wide open as he feels Sherlock inside of him, moving slowly, delicately, but strong.

Moaning deeply he pushes himself back, embraces Sherlock closer with both his arms and legs. He needs to be filled with this man’s being.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock tries to slow down once he’s in. Once that initial shock is over, once he’s seated and John is screaming and Sherlock is fighting his baser self, trying to remember that hurting is bad. He tries to go slow, to take care, but John is pushing himself down against him, clinging tighter and in the breathless beats between desperate kisses, when they’re both gasping for air, for each other, he hears him begging, high and loud and frantic,  _please, please, please, please._

Sherlock loses. It isn’t much of a fight. With a high-pitched gasp that sounds too much like  _“John,”_  Sherlock gives in. He drives into John, fucking him, mating him, claiming him.

“Mine,” he growls into John’s open mouth, grinding against lips red and swollen and bloodied. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

~~~~~~~~~~

John feels himself around Sherlock, clenching, his whole body fighting to pull him deeper and closer. Although it’s not much of a fight anymore, John knows he is losing, but so is Sherlock.

They are helpless to each other, useless in their own bodies, breathing each other in and out, he doesn’t feel pain, hot slides and pushes and thrusts, he’s being claimed, and he loves it.

Something hot trickles down the side of his neck. He doesn’t know if it’s sweat or blood, and he doesn’t care.

He hears through the fog of pleasure and need how Sherlock calls him his.

_Mine._

_Yours._

“Yours.” It’s barely audible, it’s a hoarse word, cloaked in sounds, smells and tastes of sex.

“I’m all yours.” He doesn’t know why, he thinks he doesn’t have the breath for it, but it wrenches its way out of John, floating hot and steamy into Sherlock’s panting and groaning mouth.

Close. So close. Mentally, physically. Everywhere.

With his last breath, John is sure it is, and he doesn’t mind, he doesn’t care if he dies, he says: “Please. I’m all yours.”

~~~~~~~~~~

And Sherlock comes, a shout of his own that he muffles in the heat of John’s neck. He tastes blood and sweat and he doesn’t know whose it is, if it matters. His whole body is contracting, dragging itself inwards at that one point and he feels like he’s being swallowed whole by the body beneath him. He is as deep inside John as he can be and he feels himself spilling into him, filling him, marking him, and the tidal wave of possession Sherlock rides isn’t nearly enough to damp the awe at the truth of that. At the extraordinary fact, and Sherlock doesn’t know how this happened but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. Just knows that when he leaves tonight this man is going with him, smelling like him, marked by him, with his blood in Sherlock’s belly.

~~~~~~~~~~

With the heat spreading inside him, he moans deeply, his eyelids stuttering closed. He draws it inside of him, wills it to become part of him. He pulls Sherlock deep into him, and he can feel Sherlock pulse with possessiveness, and he comes, a shout ripping through him, fierce and strong and amazing, it feels like his lungs are ripping apart, and the pleasure floods him to heal all his hurts, and feeds his starving needs.

Consuming this man’s essence he smiles satisfied, for the moment, he knows.

He knows he is fed and content right in this very moment. But he also knows that he will never be able to let go of this man, he will never be able to feel anyone as deeply and intensely as Sherlock tonight.

He sobs happily, smelling the air, hot and damp with sweat and blood and sex.

Trembling he brings his hands up into Sherlock’s curls, now wet not from the rain, but exertion. He feels him breathing against his throat, and he laughs lightly, honestly, himself. “Call me whore again.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock is crushing John, he’s sure. He is utterly limp and John’s cock, his come sticky and wet between them, is trapped by their bodies.

It occurs to him, far too late, that they never even talked about protection. It hadn’t even occurred to Sherlock from the moment he had seen John. Had only know that deep thrum of mine that still roared through him even now.

He tries to roll over, tries to give the body beneath him some space to breathe, but the encircling limbs tighten and John’s voice in his ear, his laughter, is utterly honest, terrifyingly real.

“Call me whore again,” John says, and Sherlock can feel his face splitting, the grin dragging at his lips, out of his control. He kisses that skin, heated and broken and bruised, lets his lips and his tongue taste it. Breathes it in and inhales it.

“John,” he says, and even he can hear to note of worship in his tone. “John,” he tries again. “You never said my name.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s so honest and so real he can barely believe it. All he’s ever done these past few years was act, play someone who wasn’t truly himself, and he can his heart beat louder than ever when he hears Sherlock say his name.

John.

He smiles broadly and takes Sherlock closer, breathing deeply. He smells those wild curls, and nuzzles against his mate’s forehead.

He whispers first, letting it roll off his tongue, sensually. “Sherlock.”

Letting out a burst of happiness he says it again. “Sherlock.”

It’s feels true. And honest. And perfect. And forever.

“Sherlock. You better pay me one hell of a tip.”


End file.
